


sticks & bones

by notjodieyet



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: 6+1, Alternate Universe, F/F, Found Family, Gen, Mad Science, Name Changes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:07:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27230194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjodieyet/pseuds/notjodieyet
Summary: Josephine lives with her adopted father, the town's local slightly evil mad scientist. She's never had a last name (the Master prefers to keep his secret), and throughout her childhood, she chooses different surnames for various reasons.Or: gothic mad scientist AU, 6 times Jo picked her own last name +1 time she got someone else's.
Relationships: Jo Grant & The Master (Delgado), Jo Grant/Sarah Jane Smith, Third Doctor/The Master (Delgado) (Mentioned)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 24





	sticks & bones

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic is from Seanan McGuire's Down Among the Sticks and Bones, an inspiration for this AU. (It's also.. meant to be a reference... to "sticks & stones may break my bones" because... words... names.... you know, this made better sense in my head).
> 
> Many thanks to sircarolyn on tumblr (timeladyleo on AO3) and doritoFace1q on both tumblr & AO3 for being absolutely fantastic beta readers. <3

**1:**

Josephine was five years old when she picked her first surname. Her hair was perpetually in pigtails, and she owned four dresses, all of which were too long in the sleeves. Three-year-old Josephine’s hobbies included the following: accidentally sabotaging the Master’s experiments, finding rocks and feathers on the ground, making up songs about various animals spotted outside, and asking incessant questions.

The latter would have been most exasperating, had her father been anyone else but a scientist, and a rather mad one at that. Scientists, he always told her, never stopped asking questions. (He told her hurriedly afterwards that an abundance of questions past the hour of eight P.M., although beneficial, was a bit exhausting and should be saved for the next morning). 

Josephine never had any questions about her name. She had one, after all, and she didn’t have particular need of another. The Master had informed her that although he did have other names—a first name, a middle name, and a surname—the nature of his work in mad science required them to be kept secret from all but a few. “You’ll have to pick your own last name, if you’d like one,” he’d told her.

She thought about that for a good long while and decided that, if the opportunity presented itself, she would indeed pick herself another name or two. The opportunity had not yet presented itself, and therefore, she had only the singular name. _Josephine_. 

This went on, quite the same, until she saw the snail.

It was sloppy, wet, and slimy, and it was positioned just at the step before the entrance to their big stone house. Josephine was fascinated with the glistening of its sticky foot, the way it slid across the stone and left a trail of mucus in its wake, and the slender stalks atop its head. She prodded it with a fingertip and wiped the slime on her skirt in disgust. Then she prodded it again, just for the sensation of skin against snail. 

The snail lasted another minute or so until her father came outside and accidentally crunched it under his boot. Josephine cried out, but to no avail; the poor snail’s little snail soul had departed to wherever snail souls may depart. The Master did his best to console her, showing her slugs and snails in the back garden, but Josephine was absolutely heartbroken. “You’ve _murdered_ it,” she sobbed, and ran into her bedroom for a good long cry.

Once her tears had come to their stuttering, snotty end, the Master opened her bedroom door and patted her on the back. “I am very sorry about your snail friend,” he said. “We can bury it in the yard if you like.”

Josephine nodded. “I would,” she said. 

“Hot chocolate?” the Master offered.

“Yeah,” said Josephine. “And—”

“And?”

“I’m gonna call myself Josephine Snail,” she declared, with all the grave solemness a four-year-old could possibly muster. 

The Master hadn’t the faintest idea what to say to _that,_ except that laughter seemed impolite. “Of course. Would you like marshmallows in your hot chocolate, Miss Snail?”

Josephine Snail shot him a teary thumbs-up. 

**2:**

Josephine’s second, third, and fourth surnames were chosen at seven years old, all in quick succession, after the Master finally argued the town librarian into giving her an honorary library card. It was only slightly more official than a scrap of cardboard, but Josephine didn’t care—she alighted instantly on the children’s section, devouring books like a wildfire in dry forest.

Her favorite book for two months was entitled _Jane Dragondane 2: Jane vs The Purple Witch_. The town library had once possessed _Jane Dragondane 1_ , along with the rest of the Jane Dragondane series, but according to the librarian they had presumably been stolen, or destroyed, or stolen and then destroyed. 

Josephine went out to the small oblong stone marking the grave of the dead snail from so long ago and begged it to understand that Snail was just so out of fashion now, and she was going to name herself Dragondane. Neither the rock nor the rotted corpse of the snail replied, but she told her father to call her by her new surname anyway. At the request, the Master looked up from the paper and said, “Right-o, Miss Dragondane.” It was both the first and last time Josephine heard him say _right-o,_ and she was thankful for that.

The Master, sick of hearing the name Jane, begged the librarian to order in more books. She did, but only because he had such striking eyes, and such a well-trimmed beard (the librarian had always been fond of a well-trimmed beard). That evening, the Master read Josephine a folktale about a woman and her selkie wife, and Josephine was captivated.

“I wish we had an ocean nearby so I could have a selkie friend,” said Josephine. “Do you think a selkie would be friends with me even though I’ve never seen the ocean?”

“I do think so,” said the Master, and made a mental note to thank the librarian with a bottle of wine. 

It took another few days, and some internal agonizing, but Josephine finally declared her surname to be Seal, in honor of her future selkie companion. “Isn’t that just like Snail?” asked the Master, squinting through his goggles at his current experiment.

“No, it isn’t,” said Josephine. She did not elaborate.

“If you say so. Would you mind putting on your goggles if you stay here longer, dear?”  
Josephine frowned.

“Miss Seal,” the Master amended hastily.

“No. I’m going out to the garden,” said Josephine, and she did.

That winter, the Master spent too much money and fluttered his eyelashes enough that it was a shock they didn’t drop off completely, and managed to buy Josephine eight new books for the solstice. Three were Jane Dragondane titles, two were about selkies, and the others whatever he could find.

Josephine was enamored with all of them rapidly, and decided it was wise to change her name to some kind of catch-all for her books. The Master got out the big dictionary from the living room, and they leafed through it together, eventually settling on _Tale_ , because Josephine liked the way it sat on her tongue. 

“Now, Miss Tale,” said the Master when they were done. “Run down to the basement and find your warm mittens. I promised Alistair I’d be at the solstice bonfire, and you know how snippy he gets when he’s disappointed.”

“Right-o,” said Josephine. It was both the first and last time the Master heard his daughter say _right-o,_ and he was faintly disappointed about that.

**3:**

Josephine was far less interested in her surname for another year or two or three, and it was only after she turned ten when she picked a new one. She’d been clamoring to be allowed to assist the Master in his monthly graverobbing exploits for ages by then, and the Master finally relented, on the condition that she would be very careful and only watch, not help.

Excitement coursed through Josephine’s veins all day, as she considered the implications of his offer. Maybe, when they dug up the corpse, it would sit up of its own accord and ask for tea. Maybe the militia would run after them and the Master would fistfight them, but be terribly outnumbered, and Josephine would have to rush in to help. How exciting that would be! 

When the sun set, Josephine’s stomach was spinning with such excitement that she very nearly threw up all over the Master’s boots. She managed to stop herself through sheer force of will, if only because he would keep her at home if she was sick.

“Now, I know you’re not scared of Alistair, but it’s best if none of the militia sees us at all,” the Master told her. “I need you to be very, very quiet, all right?”

“All right,” said Josephine, and she meant it. The Master had warned her many times of the dangers if they did get caught, despite their previous harmless run-ins with the militia, and Josephine was determined not to screw up her first grave robbing outing. 

The Master handed her a shovel so worn and splintery that Josephine worried it would fall apart as she fiddled with it, and a large black bag made of worn leather. He gave her a terse nod and gestured toward the door with a gloved hand. 

Josephine, thinking this was all very thrilling, solemnly opened the door and stepped outside. Her father followed afterward. “Well!” she said cheerily, unsure what else to say. “Off we go!”

The Master smiled and offered an arm. “Off we go.”

The walk to the graveyard was dark, silent, and stressful. Josephine struggled to catch up with the Master’s quick strides. Her heartbeats pounded in her ears, and if she’d been sickly before, she felt even worse now. She ached for her bed and a hot cup of tea. By the time they arrived at the wrought iron gates of the graveyard, Josephine’s every breath sent a fresh wave of nausea through her guts. 

The Master stepped forward and fiddled with the lock for a minute or two, during which a breeze picked up, ruffling Josephine’s hair, and chilling her nose so intensely she feared it might drop off. “M’lady,” said the Master, swinging the gate open.

He stepped aside to let her enter. She did, afraid her knees might give out. 

The graveyard was too dark to make out details, but as they passed stones Josephine managed to make out the names chiseled into them: Taylor, Griffiths, Sallow, Smith. 

“You’re uncharacteristically silent,” the Master commented quietly once they were safely inside, the gate closed behind them. 

Josephine shrugged in response, her lips too chapped to form proper words. 

The Master walked on ahead. The weight of both the bag and the shovel felt immeasurable to Josephine, and each step was a struggle. Was mad science always this awful? She dreaded the possibility.

He stopped all of a sudden beside a gravestone reading GRANT. Josephine caught up and he stopped her as well, pointing a finger to a smudge of darkness crouched a while away. She squinted at the shape. It was as big as Jenna’s dog, although Jenna’s dog was fat because it ate the table scraps from dinnee. This shape was slender, lean, muscular. Josephine gasped as the shape began to slink around and its true identity became clear to her.

“It’s a wolf, isn’t it,” she breathed, sure to keep her voice down from fear of attracting it. 

“I think so. I’d chase it off if—” The Master cut himself off. “I’d like to keep you safe. You wouldn’t mind rescheduling, dear?”

Josephine took a moment to reply. Her eyes were still tracking the precise and fluid movements of the wolf. It seemed to her in that moment that a wolf was the most mysterious beautiful creature in the world. She was sure it wouldn’t hurt them, no matter how long they stayed, but the Master seemed to have his mind made up. It was a relief, anyway. “No,” she said tremulously. 

The Master took her hand. His gloves were warm “We’ve got some cake still left, I think,” he said as they went through the iron gates again. “You must be shaken.”

Josephine squeezed his hand noncommittally. She felt an incredible stillness forming at her core, as if to form some kind of inner armor, and she considered that she might now be entirely indestructible. She would like some cake, though.

“Josephine Wolfclaw,” she said, when they were awash in the safety of the porch’s yellow light. 

The Master looked at her strangely.

“My name.”

“Ah.” He let go of her hand, at long last, and opened the door for her. “After you, then, Miss Wolfclaw.”

Josephine smiled.

**4:**

At eleven, Josephine Wolfclaw deigned to once again change her name. She made the decision lying upside-down on the living room couch, her legs thrown over the back of it, the rest of her body left to drape and dangle how it pleased. She had grown significantly in the past year, which the Master’s wallet was unhappy about, and she had taken to throwing herself over things dramatically to see how her long, lanky limbs sorted out.

“I think I might see Alice today,” she said.

The Master didn’t seem to hear her. He had been recently absorbed in the planning of a new project—one that would _properly_ trick the militia’s new scientific officer, who’d been on since Josephine was nine and a half but was only now deciding to get over himself and do his job. 

Unsatisfied with her father’s less-than-enthusiastic response, Josephine pulled herself up and swung her legs off the back of the couch with a flutter of skirts and petticoats. “I said I’m going to see Alice today,” she repeated, louder, frowning in the Master’s general direction.

“Quite right,” said the Master vaguely.

Josephine pouted. She wasn’t fond of the Master’s new dedication to deceiving the militia. It distracted him far too much from things that were important, like her, and her plans with Alice. “May I have a chocolate for the road?” she asked, hoping his lack of attention extended to the distribution of sweets.

“Hm?”

“Thank you!” Josephine darted off to the kitchen and, not immediately spotting any chocolates, wrapped three biscuits in a napkin and shoved a fourth in her mouth. “Altho,” she started to mumble around the biscuit. Crumbs tumbled from her lips. She covered her mouth and finished chewing. “ _Also_ ,” she said when she was done. “Alice and Olivia and I are going _pink_.” 

“Is that so,” said the Master.

“I need some money to get a pink dress and a shawl. And nail polish because all the posh ladies in town have nail polish on but we don’t have any.” The Master had removed nail polish from the house after Josephine had accidentally knocked over an open container over his project. Josephine was still simmering. It was _completely_ unfair of him to punish her over a complete accident. 

The Master hummed in response.

Josephine bounced on the balls of her feet. He wasn’t listening to a word she said. She could ask for practically anything. “I’ll grab some from the table. Can I stay over at Alice’s house tonight?”

The Master paused to take a sip of coffee. “I don’t see why not,” he said absentmindedly.

Josephine pumped a fist in the air. “Thank you,” she sing-songed, snatching the Master’s wallet from the table and slipping out her requested amount of money. “See you tomorrow morning! And—” she said, stopping in the doorway. “My name is Rainbow now, by the way. Because of the pink, you know.”

At first, she was sure the Master still wasn’t listening, and she drooped the slightest bit. But then he looked up and grinned across his blueprint. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Miss Rainbow. Do say hello to Mrs. Williams for me. Enjoy your biscuits.”

Josephine shot him a thumbs-up and skipped away.

**5:**

Thirteen-year-old Josephine had quite a different opinion on surnames than her younger selves. She decided, around midsummer, that the world was terribly unfair and she alone could disassemble the oppressive structure around which it was built. Whether or not she was correct, her father encouraged her newfound rebellious streak greatly, volunteering to cut her hair off to her shoulders and buy her a belt for her trousers.

Josephine decided that if she was to be taken seriously in the grander scheme of things, she couldn’t exactly be called _Miss Rainbow,_ so she recruited her friends Charlotte and Mary-Ann from town to help her go through the census in the library to find something more suitable.

“You could always pick something like Cooper,” Mary-Ann suggested, tracing a fingertip over the subtle bumps of ink scratched across the yellowing thirty-year-old census paper. “Cooper or—or Fisher, or Carpenter… What does your dad do, anyway?”

Josephine flushed hot and pink. When she was a much younger child, her friends admired the Master’s quirks and tools and flair for the dramatic. Now, she was mortified at the very thought of inviting them over. “It’s all _so_ embarrassing,” she’d complained many times to the Master, who remained unbothered by the possible severe destruction of his own daughter’s social standing. 

“Like… science,” she said. 

“Like science,” Charlotte repeated slowly. “I don’t really think there’s a name for that.”

“It’s okay,” said Josephine, who had been rather hoping there wasn’t. The idea of an occupational surname was horribly boring after Snail and Rainbow and Wolfclaw and Dragondane. “I’m supposed to be home in a half hour. I’ll see you later, I guess.”

Charlotte and Mary-Ann gave Josephine matching slow blinks, faces blank. 

“What?”

“It’s just,” said Charlotte apologetically, scooping up the census documents and stacking them up, “I didn’t think you were the sort of person who did things like that.”

“Things like what?” asked Josephine.

Mary-Ann stood and brushed invisible dust from the front of her powder-blue skirt. “Things like being at supper on time, is all.”

Josephine gathered up the rest of the papers scattered on the floor and held them close to her chest. Her heart was furiously pumping beneath her ribs like that of a little jackrabbit, her cheeks aflame, her voice struggling to remain steady. “I didn’t think you were against eating dinner on time,” she retorted. 

Charlotte laughed, good-naturedly. “I suppose not.” 

Josephine scrunched up her nose with all the self righteous rage that could possibly be contained in her tiny body, but she didn’t reply any further. Instead, she snatched the census documents from Mary-Ann and stormed off to the library. “ _The sort of person who did things like that_ ,” she muttered to herself. “The sort of person… I’m _not_ that sort of person. I’ll show them what sort of person I am.”

She plopped the papers on the librarian’s desk and the librarian peered at her through tiny glasses set at the tip of her nose. “How’s that father of yours?” she crooned.

Josephine did not dignify that with a response. She stayed silently fuming all throughout her walk back to the reading room, where she found Mary-Ann and Charlotte perched atop plush chairs, giggling together. “Hello,” she said, feeling awkward and young and brainless. “I’ve picked my name.”

“Have you?” said Charlotte, with an innocent pink grin.

“I’m not the sort of person to have a name at all. I’m not going to have a name. Names are overrated, anyway.” 

Mary-Ann crossed her arms. “What are we meant to call you, then?”

“Oh, Josephine is fine. Or Jo. Jo is also fine,” said Josephine sheepishly. “I meant a last name.” 

“What’s your dad going to think?” asked Mary-Ann.

Josephine mustered all her teenage apathy to say, “Him? I don’t care. I really do have to get back for supper, though. Lovely seeing you both.”

“Lovely seeing you, too,” said Charlotte. Mary-Ann nodded in agreement. “I’ll see you at the garden party Wednesday?”

“Who knows!” said Josephine, deciding on the spot that she was also not the sort of person to plan ahead for garden parties. “Josephine without a last name is heading out.”

**6:**

At fifteen, Josephine both found herself a new name, and took up embroidery. 

The Master was wholeheartedly supportive, as he was with her previous endeavors, especially considering that he had once adored sewing and embroidery himself. He gave her white pillowcases and work gloves, socks and scraps of fabric, picnic blankets and tablecloths, and in turn, she covered them with stitched yellow flowers or teal spirals or brightly colored leaves. 

Josephine was sitting at the dining table in the morning, taking small bites of blueberry pancake, when the Master announced, “Have you seen the paper this morning?” and then, “Would you like me to tell you what it says?”

Josephine raised an eyebrow. “All right.” 

“Mrs. Davis is hosting a handkerchief embroidery event this week. You still like embroidery, don’t you?”

Josephine brightened, ripping a large portion of the pancake off and shoveling it in her mouth. “ _Yes_ ,” she insisted after swallowing. “When’s the date? Is it a money prize? What are the rules?” Forgoing all social rules and expectations, she reached across the table and snatched the newspaper from her father’s hands. The Master grunted in protest. “Oh, I could buy a new skirt with this,” she marveled. 

“You are interested, then.”

“Of course! Gosh, Mrs. Davis…” Josephine trailed off, her thoughts crowding with possible ideas for her submission. 

The Master took his newspaper back. 

Over the next several days, Josephine was a flurry of excitement and brightly dyed embroidery thread. The Master considered that he hadn’t seen her quite this happily worked up about something in a good, long while. 

She presented her completed handkerchief the morning before the competition was to take place. It was a shimmering black thing, with carefully stitched bones and skulls and flecks of silver around the corner, and a golden, radiant sun in the middle. The Master couldn’t say it was particularly his style, but he cooed over it appropriately and planted a loud kiss on Josephine’s forehead, much to her chagrin.

Josephine folded up the handkerchief with a reverence she usually saved exclusively for samples, dead bodies, or organs, and placed it in her skirt pocket. “I’ll be back by supper,” she promised.

“Knock ‘em dead,” said the Master. Considering his line of work, he probably should have chosen a different phrase, as Josephine gave him a strange expression before skipping out the door.

Results were meant to be mailed the following week, although Josephine checked the mailbox three times a day without fail from the day she submitted her handkerchief. She fretted. The Master assured her Mrs. Davis would be a fool not to appreciate her work. She fretted more. 

One afternoon, the Master presented her with a cream envelope marked to _Josephine Masters_. “To be fair,” he said, “It’s not as if you’ve got anything else for them to put.” 

She wrinkled her nose anyway, but the excitement bubbling in her blood was too intense to ignore, and she ripped open the envelope unceremoniously. _Miss Master_ —she took a moment to frown with outrage— _Miss Masters, I am overjoyed to write to you with positive news._ “Second place!” Josephine exclaimed, her words ringing around the house and bouncing off the walls.

“Inside voice,” the Master chided, wearily, and then registered her words. “ _Second?_ Oh, Jo, that’s lovely!”

“Masters…” Josephine murmured to herself.

“We can go find you a new surname this afternoon, if you like.” 

“I had some ideas,” Josephine said, running her fingertip across the name emblazoned at the top of the letter. _Josephine Masters._ She recalled an old, crumbling gravestone, that she had first seen all those years ago. “Josephine Grant…” she mused. 

“Grant,” repeated the Master. “I like that. Miss Grant.”

“Miss Grant.”

“Congratulations on your name, then. And the placement,” said the Master. “One more thing?”

Josephine raised an eyebrow.

“Do set the table for supper, please, Miss Grant.” 

**+1:**

At twenty-three years old, Josephine’s beloved Sarah Jane proposed to her. 

The wedding was a lovely ceremony; Josephine would have agreed if she paid attention to anything other than her fiancée. “It _is_ to be expected,” her father assured her, wiping away a stray tear that threatened to track down his face. “I’ll tell you what happened afterward.”

Sarah had asked her, a month after their engagement, if she was particularly attached to her name. “I don’t mind either way,” she said. 

Josephine found, for somebody who had spent years caring so much about surnames and such, that she did not particularly mind either. “I like Smith,” she admitted, lying back on their shared bed and admiring the sunlight streaming through the curtains. “Even if someone else made it up.”

“We could always go with _Snail_.” Sarah sat down beside her, tangling her calloused hands in Josephine’s hair. Josephine reached up to press the pad of her thumb to Sarah’s wrist, feeling the steady beat of her heart. A heart that had ceased to beat, and then started again. A heart that seemed still fragile, even if the rest of Sarah Jane was decidedly not. 

“Dragondane,” Josephine said absentmindedly. “Wolfclaw.”

“No, thank you.”

Josephine laughed. “I suppose Smith, then.”

“The Master seems crestfallen at losing his favorite assistant,” Sarah commented, her deft fingers snagging a knot in Josephine’s hair. She reached with her other hand to stroke Josephine’s cheek in apology. “You’re sure he’ll be all right?”

“I’m sure. More room in that old house for his darling boyfriend.” Josephine felt an almost fond twang in her chest of the thought of the Doctor inhabiting the places she once lived. She wasn’t entirely sure she disliked it. 

Sarah’s hands stilled, and Josephine squirmed away to sit up and face her, cupping her jaw in her hands. “We’re getting married,” Josephine said.

“We’re getting married,” Sarah said, giddily. 

Josephine tried to think of something to say—something sweet, or profound, or amusing, at the very least, but only one thing sprung to mind. One assurance. One familiar question that rested on her lips. She leaned forward, kissed Sarah’s nose briefly, and asked:

“Hot chocolate?”


End file.
